As he began the tortured climb back to his house, I returned to the Seville. Just as I shifted into drive I realized what had been missing from the conversation.
He’d been eager to gossip, but had made no mention of Zelda’s death.
Too trivial an event to merit neighborhood murmurings? Not that this was really a neighborhood, because isolation is the ultimate luxury, and despite McCorkle’s reminiscence I doubted it had ever been much different.
But still, it felt sad.
A brief, tortured life. Its termination not even a blip.
Chapter 25
Over the next few days, with no illusions of success, I continued running on St. Denis Lane.
With two women dead, what could it hurt to look around?
Of course, I knew the real reason: my chronic issues with unfinished business.
When helping patients assess their problems, I often use life-disruption as a yardstick. If symptoms don’t disrupt your life, don’t worry about them.
I convinced myself I was doing a fine job maintaining a healthy balance: making time for Robin, doting a bit more on Blanche because our morning walks had lost out to aerobic reconnaissance.
I organized my files, cleaned the garage, spent half a day on an overdue pond water change, picked up a new referral from family court.
No disruption but for the questions I kept to myself.
On the morning of my eighth consecutive run — eighteen days since the death of Zelda Chase — I noticed a white van paused at the front gate of the DePauw estate. A female arm reached out from the driver’s side and punched a code on the call box.
Nothing mysterious about the vehicle, its purpose proclaimed in metal-flake turquoise lettering topped by a cartoon of a pretty, smiling woman meant to evoke the fifties: blouse tucked tightly into pedal pushers, knotted bandanna atop coiffed blond hair, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other.
A toll-free number.
The gate clunked open and the van drove through, offering a view of the pathway I’d climbed the night I’d seen Zelda’s corpse. As it rattled shut, a mental burr lodged in my brain.
Worth telling Milo about? Or just another symptom of neurotic tenacity?
During the run back home I tossed the question back and forth. Showered and shaved and dressed and drank coffee and ate some toast, before heading back to Robin’s studio and making small talk with her and petting the dog, then settling in my office and going through email.
Taking plenty of time to see if the burr fell free.
I picked up the phone.
Milo said, “A cleaning service. That’s significant because...?”
“When we spoke to Enid DePauw she said she had a maid. A woman who’d been with her at the desert. Who she gave the night off to when they got back to L.A. Why would she need a service?”
“It’s a big place. She wants additional help.”
“That’s probably it.”
“Alex,” he said, “what the hell is this about? And why the hell are you still going back there?”
“Forget I called—”
“Whoa, whoa. What’s bugging you?”
“We know Imelda was sociable and that she left the Aziz property occasionally for lunch breaks. The only people I routinely see when I’m running are domestics talking to each other. The neighbor across the street from the Azizes — yes, I talked to him — confirmed it. He rarely saw Imelda because he’s housebound. But when she was talking to someone, it was another housekeeper. DePauw lives moments away so there’s a good chance—”
“The DePauw maid schmoozed with Imelda. So?”
“What if DePauw hired a service because now her maid has failed to show up? What if there really is a stalker picking off women in uniforms?”
He sighed. “Back to the lurking loony... are you saying his tastes extend to homeless psychotic women? Because I spoke to Bernstein and he says he’d need strong evidence to be convinced Zelda’s death wasn’t an accident.”
“Like I said, forget it, sorry for wasting your time.”
“You never waste my time,” he said. “That’s what bugs the hell out of me. You keep life interesting and I’m phobic about ignoring you.”
He laughed. “All this because you happened to see a van. Your mind’s a scary place, Dr. Delaware.”
“A call to DePauw could clarify easily. Extra help versus no-show.”
“Last thing I need is freaking out the locals. These people have clout and their complaints get heard. Besides, how am I supposed to explain my sudden interest in her personnel issues? Transfer from Homicide to Labor Relations?”
“Good question,” I said. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“You always do.”
An hour later, I’d come up with a feasible approach to Enid DePauw: Milo following up, post-Zelda, just to ask how she was doing, had she or anyone on her staff noticed anything in the neighborhood they wanted to discuss.
All in the name of diligent public service.
But instead of telling Milo, I made an uneducated guess about when White Glove Cleaning would be finishing their St. Denis Lane chores, drove back to lower Bel Air at three forty-five p.m., and parked south of the DePauw estate.
Uneducated because I had no idea how many cleaners were in the van or the details of the assignment.
I endured thirty-five minutes without spotting another human being and began to wonder if I’d missed a brief drop-in to polish furniture or something along those lines. I decided to leave at five p.m., was about to start up the Seville when the gates to the DePauw estate opened and the van’s blocky white nose edged toward the street.
I jumped out and went over, smiling and waving and making myself conspicuous.
The van stopped. The driver’s window was down. Young Latina at the wheel, an even younger Latina in the passenger seat, both drinking bottled water. They wore pink button-down shirts with White Glove and a broom logo sewn in black on the breast pocket. The driver had wrapped a bandanna around long black hair.
Pretty girl. Both of them were. A tattoo on the driver’s neck read Tonio.
She said, “Hi!”
“Hi. I live around here and I’m looking for someone to clean.”
“That’s what we do.” Wink. “We’re good.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Two weeks?” She turned to her companion.
The other girl thought. “Yeah, around.”
I said, “It’s a big house.”
“We’re used to that,” said the driver.
“Will Mrs. DePauw give you a reference?”
Puzzled looks.
“Who?” said the passenger.
“The woman who owns the place.”
“I dunno her.”
The driver reached behind, lifted a purse, searched, handed me a stiff white business card.
The address, a Seventh Street penthouse, downtown.
I said, “This man owns the house?”
“He let us in, gave the key.”
“Mrs. DePauw’s not home?”
“No one’s home. We’re bonded, that’s why we get trusted.” Sunny smile. “You can trust us.”
A senior partner at a white-shoe firm gofering for an important client.
I said, “Okay, I’ll talk to him.”
“Take our card — here.”
Cheap stock, beige. White Glove’s West L.A. office on Pico near Centinela. As I took it, her fingers brushed mine and her neck stretched, elongating Tonio’s imprimatur.
Lashes fluttered. “Call, we’ll help you real good.”